


A Distant Glow of Hellfire

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drama, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:23:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has a little panic attack...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Distant Glow of Hellfire

**Author's Note:**

> Set directly after _Fresh Blood_.

Dean doesn’t usually have trouble sleeping after a hunt. Hell, he’s never had any issues in that department period, but tonight he can’t seem to get comfortable. The springs in his mattress are too broken down, or the covers are too tight, or there are too many headlights sweeping past the window and across his face. And his neck is throbbing like a bitch: that wasn’t any love bite Gordon gave him.

Still, he’s fallen asleep with worse. His real problem tonight is that he can’t stop thinking, and that’s all on Sam.

 _‘I wish you would drop the show and be my brother again.’_

Why the hell did Sam have to say that? Why did he have to push and prod and make Dean look—make him really _look_ —at what’s in store for him?

Jesus Christ, what the hell was wrong with how they were getting on before, anyway?

Dean had been fine. He was fucking _peachy_ until Sam went and opened his mouth. And what he _said_ , like … like all these months Sam hasn’t really felt like Dean was there with him. If that’s true, then all that time _(not much of_ that _left now)_ has been wasted. And Sam never lies when it counts.

Never keeps his mouth shut when he should, either.

No, he had to go and hurl that unsettling bombshell and then _beg_ , for fuck's sake: had to give Dean that damned, wounded _look_. Dean caved, of course—couldn’t _not_ with Sam that desperate—and everything went downhill from there.

Because now he can’t stop thinking about it.

About Hell.

He lies awake, eyes on the far wall, and wonders what eternal damnation feels like: if it’s just pain, which he thinks he can handle, or if it’s something worse. Demons can be inventive bastards when they feel like it.

Maybe Hell is a nightmare that doesn’t end, and he’ll have to watch his brother die a million different deaths. Have to hold Sam when he bleeds out again, or drowns, or has his head blown off. Have to watch the light in his eyes go out over and over again and not be able to do one fucking thing about it.

If Hell is eternal suffering, then Dean thinks that particular horror show fits the bill. He knows he’ll go insane within an hour of that, if you’re even allowed the refuge of insanity in Hell.

The more Dean thinks about it, though _(and he does, he’s been thinking about it a lot)_ , the worst part of Hell is going to be being alone. He knows that he doesn’t handle solitude very well, and that’s all he’s going to get down there.

Dad’s out; he soldiered his way free like Dean should have known he would and then paused to save Dean’s ass one last time before flying the coop for good.

There’s never been a question in Dean’s mind about his mother. If there’s a heaven, then she’s there.

And Sam … even if Sam does turn when Dean’s gone, Dean doesn’t think he’ll be seeing his brother again. Sam’s going to have more important things on his hands.

Alone.

Forever.

With only pain and regret and his thousand fuck-ups to keep him company.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

And Dean only has a little over six months left. Suddenly, the deadline seems to be racing toward him. Hell is a weight pressing down on his chest: pressing the air from his lungs. He can hear the phantom baying of hounds in the distance, still somewhere on the other side of tomorrow but getting closer with every beat of his heart.

Dean tries to drag in another breath and can’t seem to make his lungs work. Kicking off the covers, he rolls onto one side and tries for more air. But Hell is closing in, and his deal is smothering him: that vile kiss is sealing his lungs shut. His chest is already burning—God it _hurts_ —and he can’t _breathe_ , and what if he dies right here in this crap motel? Does the son of a bitch holding his marker get to take him early?

A weight sinks down onto the mattress behind Dean and he curls in on himself, still fighting for that next breath. He wills Sam to go away, not to see. He’s supposed to be the strong one: supposed to be the big brother, not … not this.

“Hey,” Sam says softly. “I’m right here, man.” One of his bandaged hands shoves between Dean’s body and the bed, and the other comes around to rest on his chest above his rapidly beating heart. It has to hurt, but Sam somehow makes his fingers work and pulls Dean back against his chest, forcing him to uncurl and aligning their bodies.

“You’ve gotta slow down, okay?” Sam’s voice is soft in his ear, soothing.

Dean shakes his head. “Can’t … breathe …” he gasps out.

“You _are_ breathing, Dean,” Sam tells him. “You’re hyperventilating, which is why you feel like you can’t get any air, but we’re gonna fix that, okay?”

“… Sam …”

“Just breathe with me, okay? In … out … in … out … nice and slow.”

Sam’s heart is just as fast and frightened as Dean’s against his back, but he can feel his brother's chest rising and falling with his words, slow and steady. He tries to find that pace, tries to understand what Sam’s telling him—that he _is_ breathing, that he’s freaking himself the fuck out—but the tightness in his chest keeps growing, and he can’t seem to fill his lungs.

“… can’t …”

“You _can_.” Sam’s voice is steel for a moment, and then it softens again. “In … and out … slow … easy … calm … in … out …”

He grabs Dean’s hand and twines their fingers together. Dean can feel the bandages on his brother’s palm, thick and awkward between them. He clutches back, not caring that the motion makes Sam suck in a sharp, pained breath.

“It’s okay,” Sam says. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. Just relax, man. Deep, slow breaths. In … and out … and in … and out …”

Dean feels his breath stutter—feels himself breathe at last—and feels a warm, pathetic rush of gratitude.

“That’s it,” Sam murmurs. “Feel me breathing. Match yourself to me, okay? Just breathe with me: in … out … in … out …”

“Sam, I … don’t … know what …what’s wrong …”

“Shh. Don’t talk, okay? Just breathe. Concentrate on slowing down. I’m right here. You’re okay, all right? You’re safe.”

Dean shakes his head violently and his chest gives another greedy gulp that doesn’t get him anywhere.

“Yes, you are,” Sam repeats firmly. His grip on Dean tightens. “I'm not gonna let you go anywhere, not gonna let anyone take you.” He shifts and then Dean feels lips at the nape of his neck. A soft, gentle press and then they’re gone.

Any other time, Dean would shove Sam out of the bed and ask what the hell he was doing. Winchesters don’t kiss. _Sam_ doesn’t kiss _Dean_. Right now, though, Dean’s still too concerned with breathing to do anything but lie there and do his best to calm down.

Sam is counting out a beat for him again, but it’s like that one kiss broke some kind of dam in him because he’s dropping more of them on Dean’s neck, his shoulder, the shell of his ear, anywhere he can reach. In … kiss … out … kiss … in … kiss … out … kiss … It should be freaking Dean out even more—he has no idea what’s going on here, Sam is kissing him, and what the fuck?—but instead he finds himself aligning to his brother’s rhythm. Feels some air finally catching in his lungs as his breathing slows.

Sam’s count disintegrates into a possessive litany as Dean relaxes: Dean’s name and ‘mine’ falling from his brother's lips as they press increasingly fevered kisses into his skin. Sam moves the arm that’s trapped beneath Dean’s body and reaches his hand around to trail soft caresses across his chest. In their combined grip, his thumb traces numbing circles onto the back of Dean’s hand.

Dean doesn’t know what the fuck has gotten into his brother. He’d say this was some kind of sleepwalking thing—that Sam’s dreaming that Dean is someone else: someone _female_ —but he can’t get away from the fact that his brother is murmuring his name almost nonstop, so he can’t pretend he doesn’t know that Sam is perfectly aware who he’s doing … this … with.

Still, Dean can ignore it: can pretend it’s just Sam being freaked out about the deal. That it’s Sam still feeling shaky over the fact that they both almost died a few hours ago.

He goes on lying to himself right up until Sam takes the lobe of his ear in his mouth and, biting down, gives it a tiny tug.

Because that’s when his dick wakes up to join the fray, and there’s really no ignoring _that_.

“Okay,” he whispers. “I’m calm now. You can, uh, you can go back to bed.”

“Dean,” Sam breathes, and then, almost desperate: “Don’t ignore this. Don’t just … we said no more walls.”

Dean could insist and Sam would go: he can feel it in the way his brother’s body is trembling against his. But he’s strangely reluctant to do that. He doesn’t want the warmth of Sam’s body stretched out behind him—of Sam’s arms wrapped around him—to vanish and leave him cold and alone again.

“I don’t know what ‘this’ is, Sam,” he confesses.

There’s a pause, and then Sam asks, “Do you trust me?”

Sam knows that there’s only one possible answer to that. But he waits until Dean nods before disengaging their hands and, clumsily, pulling at Dean’s shoulder. It takes Dean a few seconds to figure out what Sam wants and then he rolls over to face his brother.

Sam’s face is heartbreakingly open; his eyes are just as wide and frightened as Dean’s. But he doesn’t hesitate to lean in and cover Dean’s lips with his own.

It’s gentle but not tentative: Sam never does anything halfway. He goes slow, though, taking his time opening Dean’s mouth. Sliding his tongue along Dean’s lips before pressing in. His free hand comes up and he presses his fingertips underneath Dean’s jaw, tilting him up into the kiss.

Dean can hear his own heartbeat in his ears; he can still feel the phantom echo of Sam’s against his spine. He knows that he should feel lost, maybe even sickened, but instead he’s … safe. This is Sam and Sam loves him and he’s safe. If Hell is waiting for him, then it’s not here tonight. Sam wouldn’t let it get past the door.

Dean brings his own hand up to slide through his brother’s hair. Sam takes that as a green light and deepens the kiss, opening Dean’s mouth wider and growing hungrier in what he takes. His hand disappears from Dean’s jaw and reappears a moment later at his stomach, slipping inside his boxers and— _oh God_ —wrapping around the erection that he finds waiting there.

Sam’s fingers snap open a moment later, and he breaks the kiss with a hiss of pain.

“Sam?” Dean asks. He’s having trouble breathing again, but for a completely different reason, and Sam _stopped_ , why the fuck did he …

“Damn it,” Sam grumbles. His own breath is a little shaky as he drops his forehead to rest against Dean’s.

Oh right. Sam’s palms are sliced to shit.

“S’okay,” Dean says. “I got it.” He leans the few necessary inches forward and catches his brother’s mouth in another kiss.

His lips are occupied, but both of Dean’s hands are free and he puts them to good use, first shoving his own boxers down and then moving on to Sam’s. He wants to hold them both together in one hand—wants to feel the press and slide of his brother’s dick against his own—but Sam’s proportional and Dean’s no slouch in that department either, so he can’t quite manage it. Gonna have to wait for Sam’s huge-ass hands to heal up for that one.

It’s a little awkward from this position, but Dean doesn’t want to lose this closeness, and he can’t seem to stop kissing his brother anyway, so he’s gonna have to deal. He manages somehow, getting them both in hand and jacking them off with rough, uneven pulls. He’s just worked up to a good rhythm when something that isn’t him brushes against the head of his dick and throws him off.

Breaking the kiss, Dean looks down to see that it’s Sam’s fingers, and now Sam’s tracing them along his shaft and that shit is really distracting.

“Damn it, Sam,” Dean gasps, jerking his hips forward. His cock drives along his brother’s hip and leaves a smear of precome in its wake.

“Sorry,” Sam murmurs, but he doesn’t sound apologetic in the least. “I need to—God, Dean, I need to touch you.”

“Later, okay?” Dean says, grabbing his brother’s wrist and bringing his hand up between their chests. “Right now just let me …” He trails off as a car drives past outside and its headlights shine off the moist trail that he left along Sam’s hipbone.

“Dean?” Sam prods, nuzzling at him in encouragement. “Little help here?”

“Just got a better idea,” Dean announces.

He releases Sam’s cock and shoves one leg between his brother’s. Pulls their lower bodies closer together and then thrusts. His dick slides between their stomachs with maddening friction and he moans. Yeah, this’ll work.

“Come on, man,” Dean urges, gripping his brother’s hip. “We gonna do this or what?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, shuddering. He snaps his hips forward and Dean feels his brother’s cock slip over the grove of his hip. It draws a groan from his lips and an answering one from Sam’s and that’s the end of restraint.

It isn’t pretty, and it’s more than a little awkward until they find a rhythm, but it isn’t bad, considering this is Dean’s first time going past first base with another guy. Then Sam tosses his head and Dean winds up with a faceful of hair. He breathes in and gets a mouthful of Sam’s scent.

It hits him suddenly—what he’s doing and who he’s doing it with—and the realization gets tangled up with everything else and suddenly this awkward, not-so-bad thing is pretty fucking awesome.

The room is close and silent, with only the sound of their breath and the occasional moan and the friction of their bodies to keep the darkness at bay. Dean’s alive, and Sam’s alive, and they’re wrapped up in each other tighter than Dean’s ever been wrapped up in anyone else. He hasn’t thought of doing this before, not consciously, but he thinks now that maybe they’ve been heading for this ever since Dad shoved Sam into his arms and told him to run from flames on a nursery wall.

Eventually, he feels his brother's rhythm stutter against him and knows that Sam is close. Wetting his parched lips with a flick of his tongue, Dean whispers, “Come on, Sam, give it to me. Come on, man.”

“Want you,” Sam pants back, his face scrunching into something that looks like pain but isn’t. “Wanted you for—ah—so fuh-fucking long.”

His hips give one last thrust and then he’s coming, out of control and strong and beautiful in the dim room. Dean feels his brother’s seed splash against his stomach and his own orgasm slams into him, yanking him over the edge harder and faster than it ever has before.

After, they lay close even though there’s a sticky, cooling mess between their stomachs. Sam keeps kissing Dean—his eyes, his nose, his lips, the hollow of his throat—and Dean steals his own kisses back. Sucks a hickey into Sam’s neck and laughs when Sam complains and swats him off.

When they’ve both come down enough to stop for a little, Dean rests his head on the pillow next to Sam's and lets his brother hold him. He traces over Sam's face with his eyes, sees the lazy contentment there, and can’t help himself.

“This doesn’t solve anything, you know.”

He doesn’t mean to hurt Sam—doesn’t _want_ to—but he doesn’t have it in him to leave the illusion of a quick fix between them. He doesn’t want to spoil this with that kind of lie.

The happiness on Sam’s face fades a little, but doesn’t disappear entirely. The turn of his lips is thoughtful rather than sad.

“No, but it helps.”

“Yeah.” Dean exhales, his chest loose and light. “Yeah, it does.”


End file.
